How Would You Feel?

(By all means, continue to ignore this little city’s real predator and concentrate on the harmless poet, okay?

After all, she’s not smiling now, and we’ve been listening to that same perpetrator tell us, directly and indirectly, that she’s every kind of threat for months and months now, over and over.

That we’ve actually seen and felt and experienced exactly the opposite from her ourselves makes no difference ~ it’s appropriate to shower her with defensive and suspicious energy, just when she’s scraped to the point of raw red agony, don’t you agree?

… It is those who, having banished medicinal smoke’s free release from every location in which they have any actual authority, yet cannot step sideways in the good wide fresh air to admit of medicinal practices which the poet would be all too glad to confine to her home if all of her days and nights of work even earned her one in which she was able to continue that work and who come by to cough deliberately ~ at moments in which there is nothing burning in the van whatsoever ~ who particularly distinguish themselves in their unreasonability in this regard)


How Would You Feel?

If someone had your bedroom bugged
So that
As you moved in your
Very blankets
Changed your breathing

They could send someone by

Make fun of you
Remind you
You’re not

Your smile

First thing.



How would you feel?


Among us, poets are ill paid. In order to continue her work, this one currently lives in her minivan, on an income of a fraction of our nation’s poverty level. If her work has moved, enabled or uplifted you, your contribution to this effort may be made at:


Published by Ana Daksina

Read worldwide half a million times, Ana Daksina is a Troubador of the coming age.

6 thoughts on “How Would You Feel?

    1. Tell you what, I’ve reached the point that, if it were in my power, I would.

      But it’s so far removed from any power I have that this public outreach is my only weapon ~ a slender one, and short, when one is fighting while sinking in a swamp, with every strong motion sinking one deeper.

      If rage could kill he’d be erased like a pencil sketch. But hatred doesn’t kill those who serve it, only strengthens them, and I’ve run out of love, the only antidote.


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